And Claire when she didn’t know Delilah was watching. Lots and lots of images of Claire when she didn’t know Delilah was watching.
Well, shit.
“Um, what do I do?” Astrid asked when a notification popped up announcing the upload was complete.
Delilah didn’t move, wondering if she could make some excuse as to why Astrid couldn’t see the photos yet, but there was nothing. They were right there already, in front of Astrid’s eager face, and the woman was like a dog with a very expensive bone when she wanted something. No way she was letting go.
It was fine. Delilah had taken candids of Astrid and Iris too . . . hadn’t she?
She leaned around her stepsister and tapped on the first image, then showed Astrid where to click to move to the next. Astrid leaned in as the photos of everything Delilah had taken over the past three days bloomed onto the screen.
Delilah perched on the side of the bed, her stomach suddenly in knots, not just over the photos of Claire—which she could totally play off as an attempt at intentionally driving Astrid bonkers, which Astrid would have no trouble believing—but over her perfect stepsister digging through her work, her brain, her heart.
Jesus, Delilah, your heart? Get a damn grip.
So she did. She gripped her thighs and stared down at her jeans while Astrid silently clicked . . . and clicked . . .
. . . and clicked.
God, she was taking forever.
“I need a drink,” Delilah said, shooting up from the bed and removing the complimentary bottle of sauvignon blanc she’d found in their room at Blue Lily last night from her bag. She nearly cried in relief when she saw it was a twist cap. Filling one of the paper cups stacked up by the mini Keurig to the brim, she gulped the first three swallows, shuddering as it hit her bloodstream.
Then she paced and drank some more until she saw Astrid land on a photo of herself and Spencer at the Wisteria House dinner.
It was a good photo. Black and white, Spencer’s arm around her shoulder while they sat side by side at the table. The light was soft and lovely, the glow of candles and fairy lights curling around the couple like a blanket. The saturation needed some adjusting, the contrast, but other than that, it was the perfect candid.
Except for one thing.
The bride.
Delilah stepped up behind Astrid, peering closer at the screen. Spencer was laughing, his smile broad and bright, eyes twinkling on someone in front of him. His fingers curled around Astrid’s shoulders—some might say protectively, but Delilah wouldn’t. Possessively was the right word here, and it seemed like Astrid felt it. Her body in the photograph was rigid. Not so much as to draw attention during the actual event, but looking at the image now, frozen in time, she did anything but radiate warmth and happiness. Her smile was there, but it was plastic, didn’t reach her eyes at all. Delilah had even managed to capture the subtle way her fingertips bled white, ever so slightly, on her wineglass.
God, she was good.
Still, Delilah felt anything but pride as Astrid continued to stare at the image. She felt a sinking in her stomach. A sick, heavy thud. She tried to shake it off—after all, Astrid’s misery had always been her delight. And this clear horror Astrid was experiencing over seeing herself as a Stepford Wife in black and white would probably make Iris and Claire happy.
But even as Delilah thought it, wondered why the hell she even cared if Claire was happy or not, she also knew it wasn’t true. Claire wouldn’t be happy. She’d be heartbroken for her friend. Iris might gloat a little, revel in being right—god, Iris and Delilah really could’ve been friends in a different world—but she would’ve eventually settled down and supported Astrid no matter what, come up with a plan of action.
But Delilah wasn’t Iris, and she sure as hell wasn’t Claire.
“Astrid,” she said, just to shake the woman out of her stupor.
Her stepsister startled, clearing her throat before skipping to the next photo. “These are beautiful.”
Delilah blinked at the compliment. “Okay . . .” she said slowly.
“I really love the details. Like this one.” She pointed to the photo on the screen, a sharpened image of Isabel that brought out every wrinkle the Botox just couldn’t seem to reach.
Delilah snorted a laugh, and Astrid looked over her shoulder, a grin on her own face. They watched each other for a split second, something passing between them that made Delilah’s breath catch. Something that felt young and almost hopeful.
Astrid turned back around and clicked to the next photo.
One of Claire.
Just Claire, the night of the Wisteria dinner. Evergreens crowded behind her, and the sun obscured part of her body, her face shadowed, but there was no doubt it was a lovely photograph.
There was also no doubt that she was looking right at the viewer. Delilah remembered taking the picture, Claire turning her head a split second before Delilah hit the shutter, a smile on her face at catching the wedding photographer in the act.
A smile that most definitely reached her eyes.
“This one is . . .” Astrid started, but then cleared her throat again. Then she scooted her chair back so fast, she nearly ran over Delilah’s toes. She stood up and dug her phone out of her bag and checked the screen. “I should go.”
“Oh, did Spencer summon you?”
As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn’t. Instead of rolling her eyes or volleying a sharp comment back at Delilah in their perpetual barb match like Delilah expected, Astrid looked down, like she was embarrassed, and said nothing. Her throat worked around a hard swallow as she motioned toward the photo of Claire still on the screen.
“You should put that one on your Instagram,” she said. “People would really love it.”
“My . . . wait, you know about my Instagram?”
Astrid’s mouth twitched, and when she spoke, her voice was soft, tentative. “How do you think I knew I would love your wedding photos?”
Surprise shot through Delilah’s veins. Of course Isabel and Astrid knew Delilah worked as a wedding photographer. They knew she did portraits and waited tables in one of the most expensive cities in the world. But they didn’t know about her art, her ambitions, her desire to be a name among American photographers. That’s what her Instagram was for. A showcase of what she could actually do when she wasn’t doing someone else’s bidding and snapping pictures of couples mooning—or in Astrid’s case, not mooning—over each other. Delilah had never told them about any of that. Not that a simple Google search wouldn’t pull up her social media, but to even do that, Astrid would have to give half a shit to type in her name.
“Hang on,” Delilah said. “You—”